“He is doing great,” I tell her nonchalantly, worried that the mom I’ve been chatting with will wonder why the instructor has just referred to Brynley’s big brother as she. Quickly I change the subject. “How have you and your family been?”
Run-ins like this prompt me to begin to carry copies of our letter in my purse so if I run into someone who doesn’t know about the transition, I can hand it to them and invite them to read it when they have time. At Chuck E. Cheese, we run into a mom from Ryland’s earliest swimming lessons. She asks me: “Where’s Ryland? Who is that?” I reach into my purse and hand her the letter. “Great to see you!” I tell her, and Ryland and I scuttle out to the car, where Jeff is buckling Brynley into her car seat.
I’ve learned not to try to explain this to an acquaintance in person. It’s awful for both parties when someone doesn’t know what in the world to say, and I end up feeling like I’m on trial. There are times when I have to excuse myself to go hyperventilate, or I break into a sweat with a panic attack when I run into someone and try to remember whether they’ve gotten the memo. I begin to realize that maybe the letter wasn’t quite enough—for Ryland’s sake, I have to stop “scuttling” in hurried shame. I have to start walking the walk. I have to “come out” to everyone we know. As Lori Duron wrote in Raising My Rainbow, the person with a secret gives up their burden once the secret is out. If we come clean, maybe I can breathe.
Literally.
My mission becomes less about whether any given person supports us and more about showing Ryland that we’re standing with him. He’s watching every time I encounter someone who doesn’t recognize him, who wasn’t close enough to be on our email list. Instead of worrying so much about their reactions, I make polite conversation and smile as I give them the envelope. “Here,” I tell them. “Read this and get back to me when you can.”
BY NOW, BRYNLEY is impossible to keep up with, and in June 2013 Kobe has gotten ill. Our vet helps us determine that he needs to be put down, and Jeff, Ryland, and I are all devastated. “Is there anything more we could possibly pile onto our plate right now?” Jeff says, taking a break from digging a grave for Kobe in our yard while Ryland assists him. “This is turning into Hellville.”
I can’t disagree with him—things are really rough. As usual, we receive help right when it feels like the balance in our lives might give out completely. Through our LGBT resources, we find out that in July 2013, there’s a Gender Spectrum Conference near San Francisco. The mission of the conference is to offer resources and insights to gender-nonconforming youth and their families. Jeff and I eagerly register and book a flight for him, Ryland, and me to go while Brynley stays with Peg and Rand. Jeff signs up for a dads-only breakout session (“very raw,” he says later; “Some dads were opening up for the first time, and crying . . . it was really tough”) and a workshop that covers the top ten fears among parents of gender-nonconforming children. I sign up for a workshop on writing to deal with fear and a session on surgical options. Together we attend a medical panel, a session on how to maximize support within the school system, and a lecture called “Gender & Faith.”
The experience is unreal. There are tons of other kids and parents—new friends for Ryland and a new network of support for Jeff and me. I take note that most of the kids who are around Ryland’s age are transgender girls (meaning they were assigned male at birth because of their body parts, and then later transitioned to living in their female gender identity). As one of the expert speakers and I are chatting during a break, I ask her why there are so many more transgender girls than boys. She makes a good point: society is less accepting of gender nonconforming natal males, so parents may discover their child is transgender younger due to being forced to face society’s judgments earlier and in a harsher way than Ryland or other undiscovered “tomboys.” Trans girls are often criticized for being little boys who want to wear dresses to school, whereas it’s easier for trans boys to slip under the radar as tomboys, that is, until puberty hits and their female body parts begin to develop. This often causes a trans boy to get depressed, angry, and suicidal.
Understanding this makes me feel extremely lucky that we’ve looked deeper into Ryland’s identity than labeling him as a tomboy and ignoring his dysphoria. It also makes me appreciate that Ryland adapted considerably easily to life as a boy. From what the panelists seem to say, a big reason for this is that Jeff and I embraced him that way.
I experience so many emotions on this trip. One of the psychologists encourages me to write down one positive thing I do every single day, so I that I can begin to give myself more credit for being a good mom. He encourages me to realize how hard I’ve been on myself for not allowing Ryland to transition sooner, but there’s just nothing that we can do to change that now. I remember a saying that I recently heard and found very enlightening: “What you allow to control your mind, will.” I realize that I need to start honoring my own efforts and accomplishments as a mom more, and I need to do a better job of living in the present. I spend so much time worrying about the future for Ryland—what it will be, what does it mean. Right now, there’s nothing I can do about the problems that he may face down the road. We have to take this journey one day at a time and do the best we can for Ryland, Brynley, Jeff, and me every day.
At one of the sessions, we also meet a transgender girl named Devon, whom Ryland recently watched on an episode of Katie Couric’s talk show. Devon is a celebrity to Ryland—when he meets her, his face turns red! I can tell that he cannot wait to hug her. When she speaks to him, he’s mesmerized by her beauty and confidence. Devon’s mom introduces herself to Jeff and me, and as we chat, we discover a surprising connection: her brother-in-law is a firefighter in San Diego who used to be one of Jeff’s paramedic instructors and a captain whom he’d worked for on many occasions. Devon’s mom gives us her contact information, and we all vow to stay in touch with each other.
By the end of the conference, Jeff and I decide that we’d like to bring the Gender Spectrum founder, Joel Baum, to San Diego to train the staff at Ryland’s school. By the time we exit to make our way home, dozens of parents have asked us to provide them with our letter so that they can send it to the people in their children’s lives, as well.
On Sunday evening as we fly south toward home, I rest my head back against my seat. I feel completely exhausted and emotionally drained, yet a weight has lifted from me, and I feel something new. It’s a sense of authority. A sense of empowerment. For the first time, a strong sense of certainty that we are doing the right thing for our child. Seeing so many other parents with similar stories, fears, and questions made me realize we aren’t alone. We actually have more answers and more knowledge than we thought. Ryland was the youngest transgender boy in attendance, and I begin to realize we’re pretty seamless and lucky in our journey. Some parents had some pretty awful stories of bullying, self-hate, and suicide attempts. So far, Ryland hasn’t experienced anything traumatic.
Maybe we are doing something right. Maybe we’re not just a family who’s different. Maybe we’re a family who could help change our world.
Chapter Eleven
Heat in the Marriage
We needed that experience leading up to Ryland’s start in kindergarten, but I’m caught off guard at kindergarten registration day when a mom whose son will be in Ryland’s school stops me in the parking lot. She’s petite and soft-spoken—I’ve seen her in our neighborhood before, and we’ve shared hellos and a handful of brief conversations. Today, though, it’s clear she has an intention. “Hillary?” she says.
I duck my head out of the backseat where I’m buckling Brynley into her car seat. “Oh, hi!”
“Hi,” she says. “Hillary, a few months ago, I heard about your letter.” Oh boy, I think to myself, knowing people have been talking. She goes on. “I need to talk to you.”
I brace myself for another lecture on religion or parenting techniques, but instead, she goes on. “I have an older son, named Jackson, who is—well,
he’s just like Ryland.” I feel myself soften in empathy. “He’s been hiding in shame for years, wanting to try on my wedding dress, painting his toenails and wearing shoes so his brothers don’t see him. He is constantly bullied and made fun of and shows all signs that he’s, well, that he’s like Ryland. But my husband won’t allow it. I don’t know what to do.”
We stand there talking for a few minutes and make a playdate for our kids so that we can discuss more, and we quickly develop a very trusting friendship. Her middle child, Jackson, accompanies her, and I give him an old pair of my girls’ flip-flops. He puts them on immediately. I can tell his mother is conflicted.
Shortly thereafter, it’s as though this woman has fallen off the face of the earth. It’s clear she’s decided to pull back from our friendship as she’s battling to keep her family together. In the weeks to follow, I see her and Jackson around the neighborhood, and every time he sees me, he lights up. He knows that Ryland is lucky, and that he will have to hide his feelings—his identity—from his parents and peers. I wish I could adopt him and help him, but getting involved in a family’s struggles is playing with fire.
If anyone knows that, it’s us. At this stage in Ryland’s journey, Jeff and I remain very much on the same page, but that doesn’t mean things are smooth. For Jeff, there’s still one major aspect of all this that’s left jabbing at him: his work.
For the past seven years, Jeff has experienced a lot of reward in his profession as a firefighter/paramedic. I can always see it in him—he loves the thrill of the job and the honor it is to be one of the people who are called on to assist someone on what may be the worst day of his or her life. Over the years, Jeff has probably seen more death and destruction than most people will ever see, and he’s collected a lot of painful memories and images that we don’t care to relive. Unfortunately, he says, it’s hard to ever shake these and I’m not sure that he—or I—ever will.
I know the part of his work that he has loved the most is his bond with his colleagues. In the horrendous experiences and moments you witness and live through together as a firefighter, you tend to build bonds with the people who are by your side—they call each other brothers and sisters. The fire department is their home away from home, and they spend twenty-four hours at a time together . . . sometimes way more. They cook together, eat together, laugh together, relive the pain together, and confide in each other. For a long time, Jeff has considered his crew to be as close to him as our family: they’re there to protect and support you, both professionally and personally.
When Ryland arrived nearly one year after Jeff worked his first shift, he started to see the raw reality of things, especially when we found out that Ry was deaf. He came home from work one morning after a large structure fire the night before. “Here I was,” he said, “pressed to the floor of this home by the heat of the smoke and fire. I couldn’t even see my hand in front of my face.” His partner, on the nozzle of the hose line, was inching his way toward the seat of the fire. The chain saws roared above them as the truck crew attempted to cut a hole in the roof to get them some relief from the heat. “Hill,” he said, “it hit me: If I die in this fire, I’m leaving a child behind!” From that point, for him, it had to be a job. He began skipping a lot of off-duty get-togethers with the guys, and when he came home, I know that he left as much of what he experienced at the station as he possibly could. Still, it was often very traumatic.
Ryland was still living as a girl back then. He was well known and well loved at the station because, especially when he was a baby, we stopped by often—it wasn’t uncommon for families to come and visit while the guys were on duty, and I loved to watch Jeff’s face light up every time Ryland and I walked in. The guys all loved Ryland, and they always engaged him when he was around. Jeff has always been particularly close with a few of the guys: Jason and Tony, both of whom he trained with, and Greg, Jeff’s partner, who cheered Ryland on as the tomboy we thought he was for three years.
But when it grew more and more apparent that Ry was transgender, Jeff really felt there was almost no one at work in whom he could confide. Yes, his department had women on the job, as well as a handful of openly gay and lesbian members, but in part because of his brother Scott’s sexuality, Jeff always felt it was unfortunate how the station dynamic changed the instant those individuals weren’t around. “Locker room” talk would go into full effect and certain derogatory terms were thrown about playfully. He knew it was the guys’ seemingly harmless way of keeping things light to counter the heavy emergencies they deal with every day, but that didn’t make it any more palatable.
As Ryland’s transition continued, Jeff found himself increasingly sensitive to these comments, but he kept his mouth shut in an effort not to rock the boat. One guy at his station was known for walking in and greeting everyone with “What’s up, you homosexuals!” The guys often chuckled, but Jeff knew that behind that comedy was a man who spent his evening downtime reading the Bible and smoking a cigar, and who seemed to disapprove of his gay sister’s “lifestyle choice.” He also happened to be the same guy who would take Ryland under his wing, often giving him tours of the station and the engine. (Of course, Ryland loved this.)
But his comments, and those like them, had been weighing on Jeff for some time. The crew that had helped him through earlier difficult times in our family was the same crew that he found himself now turning away from. It was disheartening for him. Greg was the only one who knew what was going on in our home, and he agreed with Jeff that opening up to the fellas would be met with a mix of undesired reactions.
It’s around this time in 2013 when Jeff is promoted to engineer and transferred to a new station. Tony, our longtime family friend who has known Ryland since birth, is part of his new crew. Jeff feels fortunate to have at least one person at the station who knows about our situation and with whom he can speak freely. Tony is also one of the people who are aware of the letter we sent out in January, but we’re nervous in March when we show up at the firefighter Easter Egg hunt with Ryland now a boy. I sent the letter only to some of our close fire friends in the department because I wanted to be able to begin posting more photos of our family on my social media like some of the other fire wives, but there are still so many who don’t know. The letter I sent out was personal with certain details, and I didn’t think it was everyone’s business to have a copy. But with some of that comes an uncertainty about who knows and who doesn’t. Jeff has joked about how the firefighters love to gossip: “Telephone, tell a friend, tell a firefighter.”
When we show up at Mission Bay Park, most of the wives greet us as usual—cheery, friendly, not overly interested in chatting. When Ryland runs off, I seek out one of them, Colleen, who received our letter and wrote immediately to express support from her and her husband, Kyle. She gives me a long, warm hug, and her face sparkles when she smiles and stares in my eyes as if to say, You’ve done the right thing.
But after this, back at the station, things noticeably heat up for Jeff. He and Tony sit down for lunch one day and the subject comes up about a retired firefighter who divorced his wife and came out as gay. A firefighter who’s visiting from another station pipes in. “I guess that makes him a ‘B’ in the LGBT, you know . . . bisexual? Isn’t it funny how it gets worse as you go down the list?”
Jeff looks up at Tony. Tony looks back, concerned.
The guy continues. “Lesbian . . . cool! Gay . . . not so cool. Bisexual . . . weird, and trans . . .”
Jeff’s face changes, and Tony sees it.
“. . . what the fuck is that bullshit?” the guy says.
Tony stares at Jeff: Don’t do it, Jeff . . . it’s not worth it! It’s all Jeff can do not to reach across the table and tear the guy’s head off. “If Tony hadn’t been there, I’m not sure where it would have gone,” Jeff tells me later that night.
It’s clear to both of us that the job Jeff has loved for so long has become a source of pain and anguish. He has finally become so comfortable with o
ur situation at home, with how far we’ve come on this journey, and increasingly proud of Ryland—we both often comment on the awe we feel for our son’s strength and his commitment to who he is. With Jeff’s growing sense of pride about Ryland and our family, there has come a certain frustration about his inability to share this with his colleagues at work. On multiple occasions, Jeff tells me that he feels like a hypocrite as we encourage Ryland not to care what others think about him, while Jeff keeps secrets at work out of fear of the guys’ judgment. We still need support—we still have so many potential obstacles to overcome to continue to raise our son up. For a long time, our life at home has felt like it was in shambles, and the one place that had been his reprieve is now a place that he’s beginning to resent.
In the middle of this turmoil around Jeff’s job, we’re blessed with a miracle. As I’m moving feverishly around the house one day to complete some chores while the kids are away, my phone begins to ring. I contemplate whether or not to stop and answer an out-of-area phone number . . . but it’s an area code from my hometown.
“Hello?”
“Hillary? It’s Pastor Eric!”
“Pastor Eric! I didn’t recognize your number, it’s so good to hear from you. How are you?”
“I’m great. Actually, I’m calling to share some incredible news.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve been appointed to a church in La Mesa.”
“You’re kidding—which church?”
“Foothills United Methodist Church.”
First, I nearly drop the phone . . . and then I check to make sure I’m not dreaming.
“Hillary. Are you there?”
“Yes!” I tell him. “I’m here. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It’s almost too good to be true.”
“I promise,” he says. “It’s true.”
Foothills is where Ryland attended preschool before his transition, and it’s located just two miles from our home. At a time when I feel like I may never set foot in a church again for fear of judgment and rejection over Ryland’s situation, a man whom I hold in such high regard is showing me what may be a safe door opening back into the church. It’s been a very scary prospect for us to bring Ryland to an environment that may be unaccepting. It makes my heart very heavy sometimes when I don’t know how to answer his questions about God. I just feel like there is a way to have both: a loving relationship with God while also being true to oneself. Ryland wants to read Bible stories nightly, and so often I cannot fight the feeling that God is working in our life. How else could we explain all of the pieces that have fallen so miraculously into place along the way?
Raising Ryland Page 16